Ship Wrecked

by Mark Wayne McGinnis

  In any event, Cameron was glad he’d opted to drive his truck here instead of walking. The surrounding land—its tall trees and dark shadows—helped him come to a quick decision. That right here would be a good place to set up camp for the night. Looking across at the still-idling Ford, he didn’t relish sleeping inside it in a sitting-up position. But after witnessing the area’s harsh reality in the last few hours, no way would he sleep under the stars unprotected.

  After shutting off the engine, Cameron grabbed the plasma pistol from the passenger’s seat and moved around to the bed of the truck. And there, still lying atop the tarp, was Ramen’s trinious bundle. What the alien chose to bring with him when he ventured away from his ship on Earth. So there must be something in there that would be useful. Although, with the exception of the plasma weapon, Cameron didn’t recall seeing anything that would be of use to him, only a bunch of strange-looking contraptions. Gazing upward, he saw the sun, or whatever the primary star here was called, moving ever closer to the horizon. It would be dark soon—probably within the next two hours.

  “No time like the present,” Cameron murmured, hefting the long, oddly shaped satchel off the tarp and setting it down onto the ground. Squatting next to it, he opened it up. The largest of the items—all in the same dark gun-barrel-gray color—occupied the entire bottom of the trinious bundle. Moving the other items aside, he pulled the thing out. About two feet long, it was a foot wide, and maybe seven to eight inches thick. Once in his lap, he ran his fingertips along the intricately etched surface with its raised swirling edges. The more he studied it, the more he thought it beautiful—a true piece of art, unto itself. But what exactly is it?

  Cameron continued to run his fingers around the top, the sides, and, flipping it over, the bottom. Huh! He suddenly realized the bottom was supposed to be its top. Although almost identical to its other side—the same cool, etched designs—this surface had, lined in a row, a series of four small circular indentations. Placing a finger over the first one, nothing happened. He next traced his finger over all four and something occurred. Confused, the rules of physics were way out of whack, for somehow the object was growing heavier by the second. With effort, Cameron shifted the thing from his lap onto the sand. The object was growing. Its X, Y, and Z planes increasing in size even faster.

  Cameron jumped to his feet. Snatching up the trinious bundle, he was forced to take a step away and then another two steps. The strange object’s dimensions, already equal in size to those of his truck, were increasing. By the time it finally ceased all movement, Cameron was ogling a structure ten feet high and about the same width. It was no less than fifteen feet long. A door, or hatchway, then became evident—large enough for a man to walk through without even ducking. Perhaps what looked like blackened windows, or portholes, too, were along the sides. Its surface was also the same dark gray color, and the swirling design, now expanded, covered every inch.

  The structure was rounded and seemed almost organic in nature, like an enormous turtle shell. The four indentations, now much larger in size, were positioned on the right of the hatchway. Cameron wondered: What if I use a different combination when touching the indentations? Would the structure have expanded out differently, perhaps be smaller, or larger, or some other variant shape?

  Cameron, setting the trinious bundle down, approached the hatchway. An indentation in its center was not unlike the other ones. He placed his palm over it and, a moment later, the hatchway clicked and slowly swung inward. Peering into the darkness within, he witnessed something strange. Again, it was something that contradicted everything he thought he knew about physics.

  Part II

  Dark Times

  Chapter 32

  Heather, reaching again for the straightened-out wire coat hanger, fed one end into the narrow gap between her thigh and the cast. Almost non-stop itching on her broken leg had only increased over the last few days. She contemplated finding one of her father’s hacksaws in the garage and cutting through the fiberglass cast.

  Recuperating at home, and sitting up in bed, Heather’s mother returned to again fluff up her pillows for the third time that morning. Heather’s growing boredom was almost as tiresome as the incessant itching. She couldn’t watch another second of TV. Every channel airing non-stop coverage of what they were referring to as the Octobeast. Multiple video clips seemed to be on a constant replay loop: the Octobeast storming down Gant Mountain; the Octobeast gathering up ranch animals in its multiple tentacles and gorging itself; the Octobeast charging a Larksburg Stand sheriff, her own father, while he emptied his rifle into it. He was then violently flung aside, like he and his SUV were mere toys.

  Heather’s cell-phone rang. Picking it up and checking the caller, she accepted the call. “Ginger?”

  “Drake Café’s holding my job for me.”

  “Yeah … mine too,” Heather said, thinking about Rick, the owner’s twenty-nine year old son, who’d called her an hour earlier. He’d hit on Heather more times than she wanted to remember. But he was mostly harmless. “I’m not sure I’ll be going back to work there. Or anywhere else in Larksburg,” Heather added.

  “You’re just saying that. Things will probably start to calm down soon.”

  “Oh, you think so? There’s a ginormous, man-eating alien beast living just beneath the ground, somewhere right below us. We’re living in the most famous place on Earth right now. News trucks from CNN, FOX-News, NBC, CBS, ABC … I even saw a friggin’ Al Jazeera van stationed outside … on the curb in front of our house!” Heather said irritably.

  “I don’t know. They’re all probably only doing their job. Hey, you’re becoming famous! The pretty girlfriend of the boy who was whisked off into space,” Ginger said.

  Heather didn’t want to be reminded. Cam was gone, probably forever. She didn’t know if he was alive, or if some creepy alien was doing sick experiments on him that very moment. As bad as it was when he left her to attend college three thousand miles away in California, this was immeasurably worse. She blinked away the moisture in her eyes.

  “60 Minutes wants to interview me,” Heather said, in a matter of fact tone. “As part of a three-part-series on the alien attack here in Larksburg Stand.”

  “No! Really?” Ginger exclaimed, not even trying to hide her growing enviousness.

  “I don’t want to do it. Want nothing to do with any of it.”

  “Wish they would ask me,” Ginger said.

  “They want to take me out to that big hole. Like, right where the monster dug itself underground. You know, over by the library? Even Brian Larrik left me a few messages. And she’s getting kind of bitchy about it, too.”

  “No way! She’s super famous. Maybe not used to being turned down.”

  “My mom thinks I should do it … is pressuring me …”

  “Hey, screw Lesley Stahl and the broomstick she flew in on! You don’t owe her, or anyone else, squat. You’ve been through enough, girl. You give her my number. I’ll set the old witch straight.”

  Heather laughed. “Yeah, I bet you would, too.”

  “Damn straight!”

  They both laughed.

  Ginger said, “Well, I’ve got to go. An old Shriner’s Club geezer wants to talk to me about giving a speech this weekend. You have fuckin’ 60 Minutes after you, while I get to give a Shriner’s Club speech. How is that even fair?”

  Heather, on ending the call, closed her eyes and rested her head back on the pillow. She was reaching again for the wire hanger when her mother rushed back into the room.

  “Hurry, turn on your TV!” she exclaimed, searching for Heather’s remote control on her bedcovers.

  “Mom … I’m really tired …”

  Her mother, coming around the opposite side of her bed, plucked up the remote and pointed it at the TV.

  Coming on, a big red Breaking News banner flashed across the screen. A familiar-looking MSNBC male correspondent—clutching a microphone and holding a finger up to his ear—began nodding, a
s if being updated from the studio. When he spoke, his tone was both serious and excited. “I’m here at the North Horton and Lamar Street intersection.” Partially pivoting, he gestured at a building behind him.”

  Heather and her mother exchanged a look.

  “The library … less than two miles away from where we live,” her mother said.

  “I know where the library is, Mom.”

  “They’re reporting about conditions changing … new activity.”

  The reporter said, “As you can imagine, all sorts of scientific equipment have been setup to monitor vibrations. Much like those used in monitoring earthquakes … Richter scales, and such. The Octobeast, completely immobile an hour ago, is now on the move. And if the indicators are correct, the underground creature is now headed back toward the same open hole it disappeared through three days ago.”

  The feed changed to a new view of the Larksburg Stand Library’s sprawling back lawn, where a large, gaping, open hole in the ground dominated the scene. The camera next zoomed out, showing an impressive military presence. One that included tanks, several mobile missile launchers, and other weaponry Heather was not familiar with.

  “Good! They’re ready for it this time,” her mother said, giving Heather a confident, all-knowing smile.

  “Is Dad there … at the library?”

  Heather’s mother, suddenly looking much less sure of herself, hurried out of the room.

  “Mom?” Heather shouted, and heard the kitchen’s phone picked up and dialed. Her father was almost killed up on Gant Mountain. Doctors said it was a miracle he survived after being thrown so far a distance, with only minimal injuries inflicted—a broken arm and several cracked ribs. Both Heather and her mother made him swear he’d stay far away from the creature should it ever emerge out from beneath the ground. For him to leave its destruction to the military—neither jeopardizing himself or the local police force.

  TV news was now showing a split screen: the open hole on the left side of the screen and the strong military presence on the right. No one was speaking at the moment, which seemed weird to Heather. The eerie silence only increased her anxiety; dreaded anticipation of what might be coming next. Hearing her mother’s muted voice in the kitchen, sounding upset, she glanced from the TV to the open doorway then back to the TV again. Sudden movement then appeared on the left-side screen. A single thick tentacle could be seen, rising up from the huge open hole.

  “Mom!” Heather yelled, “It’s coming back out …”

  Chapter 33

  Cameron stood in the turtle shell’s open hatchway and stared inside. Nearly dark inside, muted illumination entered through a series of one-way windows set around the periphery. They let in just enough light for him to see various items—items that shouldn’t be there. In the center of the space was a scaled-down version of a HOD. And like the ones back on the Primion, the human-length tube radiated a soft-white glow outward. It occurred to Cameron that the forced camping excursion to the valley floor just got a whole lot more comfortable. He’d put off thinking about the physics, the impossibility, of something as substantial as a HOD having expanded out here to full-size from being so reduced.

  The moment he cleared the threshold and stepped onto the soft flooring, several virtual halo-displays popped up around him. The nearest one provided a wide variety of diagnostic readings for what was called a Tangine-Shell. He liked his own description of it better—turtle shell. Its power reserves were at 100%, and the environmental levels nominal, if he was reading the fluctuating, colorful, waves correctly. He paid special attention to readings listing primary atmospheric elements on this world of Sang-Morang:

  Atmosphere: 75% nitrogen, 23% oxygen, 1.9% argon, and 0.03% carbon dioxide.

  There were smaller readings for additional elements, as well—those containing smaller percentages. Almost identical to Earth’s atmosphere—with a little higher oxygen levels, lower nitrogen levels, and a bit higher argon levels. Waving his hand in a dismissive gesture, the virtual display readings almost seemed to dissipate—as if caught up in a breeze and carried away. He learned how to dismiss virtual displays like this when back on the ship. The next display wasn’t as easily decipherable. He studied its odd, slowly rotating geometric symbols—what looked like abstract flashes of light, or maybe data. It made no sense to him. Taking a gamble, he asked, “Alice … are you here with me?” Waiting a moment, he let his eyes drift to a set of windows with views of the distant mountainside. The same one he’d recently traversed.

  A new virtual 3D display materialized. Several feet away, Alice, full sized, was turned to the side, doing something at either a terminal or a console on the Primion’s bridge.

  “Hi Alice,” Cameron said, still waiting for her to acknowledge him. Eventually she did, only partially turning her head in his direction. He imagined she was viewing something similar on her end—a 3D virtual display of him now standing within the Tangine-Shell.

  “Hello, Cameron. It is good to see you, that you made the journey down the mountainside safely. Also, I see you are utilizing a Tangine-Shell as a base of operation. I assume it was provided to you by the one you called Ramen?”

  “Yeah … he left it in my truck.”

  Alice, briefly smiling, said, “Taking the Earth vehicle … another wise decision. I am sure I do not need to tell you that the odds were stacked against you accomplishing your objective.”

  “An objective of hunting down a Minal Loth … carting it all the way back to the ship? No problem,” Cameron replied with heavy sarcasm.

  “And doing so within the next eighteen hours-and-three minutes,” she added.

  “There’s a countdown timer on this, too?” he asked, now humorless.

  “Yes. XI will be ready to move onto his preferred course of action by that time.”

  Cameron slowly nodded. The time element made an already impossible situation even worse. He noted Alice seemed to be hiding her left side from him on purpose. But she wasn’t fooling anyone by such evasive actions. He’d already gotten a glimpse of it.

  “Can you turn toward me, please?” he asked.

  “I am quite busy with my duties, Cameron. If there is nothing else, I suggest you get started on your own undertakings.”

  “I can see what happened. Your face … it’s been damaged.”

  Alice, busying herself with something on the terminal, intentionally ignored him.

  “Hello? Did you hear me?”

  Finally she turned to face him straight on. The only partial glimpse he’d seen of her face before he now saw in its entirety. The entire left side of her once-beautiful, perfect face was heavily damaged, more like mangled; the left eye was only a blackened hollow orb. Both cheek and partial jawline were charred—like meat broiled over an open fire. Cameron had little doubt her facial damage was the result of a direct plasma bolt. “I should not be speaking with you, Cameron.”

  “XI did this … to you?”

  She didn’t answer, though her blank expression said it all.

  “I’m going to kill—”

  “Do not speak words you cannot take back.” Alice turned back to her terminal. “Complete your task, Cameron. That is how you can … most help me and yourself.” The virtual display suddenly disappeared, and Cameron again was alone within the Tangine-Shell.

  Cameron said the words anyway: “I’m going to kill that fucking droid,” then looked again at the undecipherable display. He didn’t get the chance to ask Alice about it. She wasn’t supposed to help him, obviously. He looked about the space and took several steps forward. Why not try talking to the turtle shell? he mused.

  “Tangine-Shell … can I ask you a question?”

  “Go for it, human,” said a deep voice that was unmistakably Texan—Cameron recognized the drawl of southern good ol’ boy.

  Cameron found himself holding back a laugh. “You do a good job coming across as someone from my home world. Is that for my benefit?”

  “That’s the idea. How am I doing
?”

  “Doing excellent.”

  “Good. Now what can I do for you, young man?”

  “Um, first just tell me about this shell thing. The technology seems different than that onboard the ship. Maybe more advanced.”

  “Because it is. You think the Thidions could come up with this level of tech? Let’s get real. What you’re standing within, interfacing with, is all Priopax.”

  “Okay. That’s another world, I take it … Priopax?”

  “Nah … more like a system of worlds. Look, once your planet Earth learns to detect slip-bands, you’ll find them everywhere. Everything changes then. The fact that intelligent life is abundant everywhere in the universe will become most apparent. With luck, your early space explorers will encounter friendlies. Like on Earth, there are nice, and not so nice, individuals, societies … yes? It’s a coin toss, my friend. And one, unfortunately, that will determine the fate you call humanity quite quickly. A run-in with the Flaumutes, or the Thackorins, would be real bad. They don’t share intergalactic space with anyone. But your explorers could just as easily meet up with the Craing. They can be mean little bastards, but some are okay, I guess. With some luck, your explorers will first make contact with the Thidions, or the Priopax, or a certain few others.”

  “I hope it’s the Priopax. I’m not having the best of luck with the Thidions so far.”

  “Sorry, partner … another coin toss gone awry.”

  “How aware are you of my current predicament?”

  “Up to speed. Best you don’t think of me as the typical AI. Like those you’re used to on Earth, or even aboard the Primion. I’m what your kind will eventually come to know as ‘bio-stream’ beings. Over millennia, the humanlike inhabitants of Priopax kept adapting … both to and with … new technology. Long story short, they became one and the same. It’s all about consciousness, my friend … not so much the physical container that consciousness inhabits at any one particular lifetime. I’m not the Tangine-Shell you’re standing within. Just as you are not the physical body you’re inhabiting in this moment in time. But that discussion is best saved for later. Yes, I know your predicament, and I’ll assist you as best I can. I have no allegiance to the Thidions, or to the remaining droids still onboard the Primion vessel. Unfortunately, my assistance will primarily be more on the intellectual side than the physical. Understand, this Tangine-Shell, along with my own interface with it, was pilfered from a disabled Priopax spacecraft some years ago. It was my choice to allow Ramen access into this shell and to introduce the HOD unit into these confines.”